On His Majesty's Service

happened, it was plain to him that the Turk cavalry would not be able to shift these, covered by the battery in the redoubt. The strelki could therefore chance a dash to safety behind them.

‘Couldn’t they have advanced another hundred yards though?’

Hervey agreed with the sentiment, but as his friend must know, the evolutions of a line of infantrymen in close order were not to be compared with those of a troop of dragoons, he said. Even a troop could take an inordinate time at the beginning of the drill season.

And as if to prove his point, only now, with the Turks getting into a gallop, did the Azov’s major give the order to the companies, ‘Front rank, kneel!’

Hervey took one of the pistols from his belt and ported it defiantly. Fairbrother and the others followed.

The Turk line was already losing cohesion, however, confused by the strelki’s dispersion. By some instinct, the Turk horses, or perhaps their riders, made not for the huddled riflemen but the gaps in between, as if in a race to the more distant line, and the strelki merely obstacles on the way.

Riflemen fired exuberantly as sipahis galloped past, like guns with driven game. Men and horses tumbled. Those that galloped on did so with no attempt to close up or rally, so that what should have been a charge by a wall of lancers became instead an affair of disunited spearmen. Whistles blew, and the daisy-chain lay prone.

And now the battalion companies proved their mettle – rolling musketry by platoons, an almost continuous show of flame and noise, and no little lead.

Losing all cohesion, the sipahis faltered, circled, turned and then spurred for home, barging back through the risen line of strelki with scarce an idea of the bullets now taking them in the flank once more. Here and there a bolder Turk took a rifleman on his lance, and one cluster was scattered by riderless horses that were too hemmed in to evade, but the daisy-chain held, turning check into rout by their fire, and the battery hastening them with shell.

But the Turks were not completely done. Their guns, the field of fire at last clear again, now answered – and this time with shell too.

They had the range at once: air-burst over the strelki line – a murdering hail of iron balls. A dozen men fell dead, and as many wounded.

‘That should not have happened,’ said Hervey, turning to look for the others in the melee of riflemen. ‘Agar, you are hit?’

Agar stood dazed-looking, as if a prize-fighter had struck him. Blood covered his left shoulder.

Corporal Acton saw, and put an arm round his waist. ‘Sit down, sir, please.’

Agar hardly needed the invitation, his legs giving way.

‘Deep breaths, sir. Just keep taking deep breaths.’ He took off Agar’s crossbelt and unfastened his tunic to examine the wound. It looked savage, but the blood was oozing not spurting. ‘No artery severed, sir.’

He took a lint dressing from his pocket and then a bandage to hold it in place – once round the chest and twice over the shoulder. Then he refastened the tunic, tight. And finally the crossbelt.

‘I’ll carry ’im rear, sir,’ he said, helping Agar up and then crouching to take him over his shoulder. ‘Wouldn’t want to wait for another o’ them charges.’

‘Good man,’ said Hervey, taking up Agar’s sabre and pistols.

‘They’re rallying!’ called Fairbrother, who had kept an eye on them throughout, not able to believe they could be quite as supine as in the affair of the Cossacks.

The whistle signalled retreat.

The Russian battery fired again, and moments later the Turk. Hervey felt shell-splinter nick his right ear. Fairbrother swore as a splinter struck his cartridge case and broke the fastening, so that his crossbelt fell apart. Another stung Acton’s elbow. He swore too but he wouldn’t quicken pace – not with a wounded cornet on his back.

‘Here they come,’ said Fairbrother.

‘Double time, Corp’ Acton!’ barked Hervey, seeing they could just make it rear. ‘Your life on it!’

XI

MAN OF LETTERS

Later

Hervey lay back in a wicker chair and closed his eyes, the exertions of the previous hours at last claiming their due. If they had been English cavalry, or French, he would not have lived to take his ease. He was certain of it. What had become of the wild Turk of legend? Three companies of muskets had driven the same number of cavalry from the field without even forming square. And the regiment, moral masters of the ground as much as by weight of fire, had been able to recover their dead and wounded.

But what had they gained for the price of half a company? Respite, certainly: the Turk guns had been silent since. Perhaps they had even thrown over a general attack; who knew? Colonel Vedeniapine was defiant. He had staked his claim on the ground before his regiment’s redoubt, and seen off the first challenge. He had fought the Turk in 1810, and he had no higher opinion of them now than he had had then; he was sure they would not chance against the Azov again.

Acton had been stalwart. He’d spared neither wind nor muscle bringing Agar in; only the greatest pride had been able to keep him on his feet when they’d gained the line of muskets.

‘That were a good surgeon, that Russian,’ said Johnson as he put down a tray of glasses. ‘’E knew ’ow to use them pincers all right. ’E ’ad that piece o’ shell out like lightning.’ Johnson had observed the work of surgeons often enough to know good practice when he saw it.

‘He was indeed,’ said Hervey, his eyes still closed. ‘They say he studied in Paris. Mr Agar is fortunate.’

‘’E’ll be right as rain in a week.’

‘I’m sure of it.’

‘An ’e wants t’bit o’ shell as a keepsake – to give ’is brother.’

‘Mm. I met his brother just before we sailed. Not, I fancy, a collector of warlike relics.’ Hervey did not suppose that George Agar-Ellis would hold him personally responsible for injury to his younger brother – and a fragment of shell was far removed from the condoling letter post mortem – but all the same he disliked mementoes of brushes with death. ‘Is Captain Fairbrother returned yet?’

‘No, sir.’

Fairbrother had gone to ask the Cossacks for the loan of horses the following morning, for Hervey wanted to see the videttes.

Johnson continued laying the table.

‘I have come to a decision, Johnson, but I would know your opinion of it.’

‘About what, sir?’

‘I intend taking command of Lord Hill’s regiment, the Fifty-third.’

Johnson had finished arranging the glass and china which the previous occupants of the billet had obligingly (or perhaps un-willingly) left. He picked up a fork and began polishing it. ‘Them as is in Gibraltar?’

Hervey’s eyes remained closed. ‘Just so.’

‘So all that wi’ them Azovs pleased thee, then, sir? Cap’n Fairbrother said it were like being a skittle at a fair.’

‘If it were, then the balls were singularly ill-aimed. The fact is, it would be an empty command at Hounslow, and I cannot be inactive – not when there is the prospect of activity elsewhere.’

‘And you’d allus be able to go back t’ regiment if they gets bigger.’

Hervey shook his head. ‘No. It would not serve. The die would be cast.’

Johnson polished a little more. ‘And Gibraltar’s in Spain?’

‘At the southern tip. Almost Africa. But ours, not Spanish.’

‘Will Lady ’Ervey like that, sir?’

Hervey opened one eye to check the expression on Johnson’s face (which was as before).